Chapter Text
It's almost 2:30 am when Flux finally makes it to his apartment.
Smoky bebop still hangs onto his clothes, a riff beneath his fingertips he hopes he'll remember come morning, three too many drinks coursing through his bloodstream. Today he's added one more number to his age, and it's brought none of the trepidation he'd always associated with birthdays. For once, his head feels featherlight, thinking of his friends, thinking of a night so fun even Flux is having trouble stopping himself from considering that all those pejorative urban legends about turning 27 couldn't possibly be true.
Tripping into his late twenties has its perks, he thinks pleasantly as he effortfully sticks his keys into his apartment's front door; his fingers keep sliding down the keypad. It takes him several tries, drunk as he is. He might have to pass on the burger and fries he picked up on his way home, he thinks as he shoulders the door open.
He freezes.
There's a glass on the counter that wasn't there when he left this morning. A waft of cologne at the front entrance - vetiver, leathery, expensive, distinctly not his own - rogue and off kilter in the staticky air. A denim jacket strewn across the floor. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up on instinct, but there's only one logical explanation. There's always only been one dreadful explanation.
"Saps," Flux calls out. "How many times have I fucking told you - do not break into my apartment when I'm not here?"
There's no response.
Immediately, Flux marches towards his couch, and sure enough - there Saparata is, curled into a cat like heap, asleep. He's grabbed a blanket from Flux's linen closet, the nice silky blue one Flux tries to keep hidden away because this inglorious bastard is habitually bent on leaving his fingerprints over every surface of Flux's life. Fuck, he's even stolen one of Flux's shirts! It's a curse. It must be. It pisses him off enough that he doesn't feel bad about ripping the blanket off him and shining his phone's flashlight directly into Saparata's face.
Saparata flails wildly, indignantly shrieking like a caricature of a vampire in sunlight.
"You," Flux says, "don't deserve my nicest blanket. How the fuck did you even get in?"
Saparata blinks, wipes his eyes with the back of hand. With a sly smile, he says, "Figured out the door code."
The code is, regrettably, Saparata's birthday. He prays the dark hides the furious blush on his face.
"I'm just saying it's almost like you wanted me to break in." The smile becomes triumphant - they both know that Saparata is right. Flux is too tired and too drunk to argue about it.
The conversation stilts. Outside, city lights and billboards bleed onto the hardwood floors of Flux's apartment in a mottled technicolour array. It's just them, and the white noise of Flux's heating humming to life. Flux pretends he doesn't notice Saparata staring at him out of the corner of his eye.
"You cut your hair," Saparata observes.
"And you should cut your hair. It looks a mess." It's bleached platinum and shoulder length now; Flux almost wants to reach out and smooth the cowlicks down. Begrudgingly, it gives Saparata this rough, gorgeous edge that Flux would sooner choose diving out his apartment windows, drunk or not, than admit that it looks nice on him.
"Can't. Ish says I have a public image to maintain or whatever."
"Where'd you crawl back from? London? Paris?"
Saparata sits up, stretching until his spine pops. "Toronto, actually."
"Another sold out venue?" Flux isn't sure why he's asking, as if he hasn't seen Saparata's name plastered on tabloids and Twitter feeds for the last several months.
Saparata gives a toothy grin. "You know it."
Sighing, Flux places his greasy paper takeout bag on the coffee table and folds his arms, tries to make himself look more annoyed than he maybe is. "Well? You're here now. What do you want?"
"I missed you," Saparata smiles.
And it makes Flux's heart splinter all over again. He feels his mouth twitch while Saparata looks up at him, lurid dark circles under his eyes and a small smile, like he's unaware of everything he does to Flux.
"Ugh, save it for when I'm not on the verge of passing out." Flux pushes Saparata's feet off the couch, dropping himself in the free space. He feels himself loll forward, and Saparata catches him by the shoulder and pulls him back with a laugh, electricity alight down Flux's back when he realizes how close their faces are. Oblivious, Saparata makes a contended noise, leaning over to rest his chin on Flux's shoulder. His breath ghosts over the plane of Flux's face, against his neck.
Flux's lungs stutter. He probably would've stayed there in a hypnotized stupor just an inch away from Saparata's face, if it wasn't for the empty wine bottle rolling out from under the couch and stopping at Flux's feet shocking him back into reality. With renewed irritation, Flux narrows his eyes. "Is that my wine?"
Saparata pinks. "Ok, I can explain. It was a really good merlot. I'll pay you back, swear on my life."
"You drank it straight out the bottle?"
Saparata laughs and it sounds like a summer breeze in the dead of winter. Flux is drunk enough - or maybe, in spite of being drunk - that he briefly considers leaning down, closing the distance between them and kissing that carefree smirk right off of Saparata's face. It would be so, so easy - a turn of his head, rosy lips parted. Mutual sentiment Saparata reaches for the nape of Flux's neck, long fingers tangling in his dark hair and the warmth of his palm sending Flux's heart into overdrive, closing the distance, lips just about ghosting each others, and -
Flux's phone blares to life. "Shit, fuck," Flux mumbles, pulling away from Saparata, struggling to fish his phone out his pockets. Squinting, he reads Cynnika scrolling across. "It's late. I've got work in the morning," Flux says pointedly as if to remind himself.
Saparata reels back, suddenly very preoccupied with the stray threads on the blanket. "Right. Right. 'Course." The phone continues to ring, accusing. "You're not getting that?"
"I don't really want to."
Flux lets his phone ring as they watch the Manhattan skyline glimmer, lighting up in Saparata's eyes like fireflies. He catches their faces double exposed in the window, equally exhausted.
"Happy birthday, Flux," Saparata says finally. "I didn't forget. Left your present in your room."
"Past midnight, Saps. Not my birthday anymore." With effort, Flux hauls himself up from the doughy couch cushions and stumbles towards his bedroom.
"You don't mind if I crash here tonight, right?" Saparata asks from the couch. "Ish is being a bona fide asshole about my time off between tour legs."
"Maybe if you listened to your manager he wouldn't have to be the asshole."
"Right. But I wanted to see you." Flux refuses to look back; he can already hear that boyish smile on Saparata's face without seeing it. His chest tightens.
"Just don't get wine on my carpet. I'll wring you for all your net worth if you do." A beat. "And give me my shirt back."
Saparata is already halfway to the bathroom, absent-mindedly scratching his stomach when he calls back, "Pretty sure this was my shirt first!" Flux's face cracks into a smile.
Flux is already in bed when his phone rings again. The screen lights up, it's Thomas this time. He stares at the phone screen, then at Saparata's hazy silhouette against the bathroom light, as if peering through stained glass. Older, but not wiser, as he lets the call go to voice mail again.
Sleep abandons Flux almost instantly.
Instead, his feet land on cold hardwood and he shuffles towards the living room, not bothering to be quiet. Saparata has always slept like a log - all the time, anywhere. Right now, he's got drool coming out one corner of his mouth, limbs splayed and blanket dragging onto the floor. An astral projection of all the ways Saparata occupies Flux's fondest memories.
Flux sits on the hardwood floor, presses his forehead against the cool glass coffee table. Precious time is lost to watching the steady rise and fall of Saparata's chest instead of sleeping. He finds his hands carding through Saparata's hair, wondering if the gorgeous electric shock Flux feels at having Saparata in person translates via touch, reaches Saparata in his dreams, But the trouble was that Saparata always preferred being a disembodied voice over a phone, a face on a tabloid. The trouble is that Flux would always miss the flesh and blood, the punched laughter and dizzying force of him more than he could stomach.
This is just how they are now. Saparata will sell out stadiums, forego all contact for several months, show up when he feels like reminding Flux of the way Saparata's fingers feel pressed against his amygdala, and leave once Flux has gotten used to it. Ad infinitum until the sun explodes and maybe even beyond that.
Nostalgia has a bitter way of casting a golden ephemeral quality over even the worst memories he's had with Saparata, but Flux stares it down with all the strength he has left in him.
Every time, those hazy dandelion-fluff visions stare right back, reminding Flux that it wasn't always this way.
The sun cracks itself against New York high rises, bleeding early morning washes of pale blue and gold onto cobblestones pavements. It must've snowed last night, brownstone buildings and bodega canopies dusted with it like powdered sugar on a cake. Saparata is still asleep by the time Flux is about to leave for the day so he leaves the coffee pot running warm and a covered slice of chocolate birthday cake to go with it for whenever Saparata decides to wake up. It's been months since Flux cooked himself breakfast and he isn't about to rekindle the habit now.
Maybe the Flux from two years ago would've fixed them both breakfast if Saparata had shown up impromptu like this. Certainly not the one now.
An uncharacteristically cold late-November morning, air crisp and smelling like rotting leaves. Flux wishes he'd brought his scarf with him as he weaves past New York pedestrians. The weather, his thunderous hangover, and Saparata shaped wrecking ball aren't doing his souring mood any favours.
He makes his familiar route past buildings sporting curlicue iron culottes, grocery stores and pharmacies with dot matrix signs. With each step away from Saparata, the familiarity of cocooning himself back into a life he's cultivated quell the ache in his chest. Day shifts running his vinyl store, nights playing piano accompaniments to silk-voiced crooners at Manhattan jazz bars, gaps between filled with good friends and better food. It's a beautiful life when there's nothing bulldozing through the peace he's painstakingly maintained.
When he pushes through the front door of the vinyl store, a ringing bell announcing his entry, the usual offenders are already there. Rotation's here early to sort out new shipments, dutifully stocking and organizing vellum-wrapped vinyls onto shelves. Flux tries not to let it bother him when he spots Saparata's band's debut album among them.
Thomas, ambiguously ethical knight of New York's fintech scene, is leaning against the checkout counter clutching a cardboard tray of coffee cups when he spots Flux. Despite getting equally shitfaced the night before, Thomas' pressed button-up and shiny cufflinks don't betray any hints of the hangover Flux is currently fighting for his life against. It annoys Flux.
"You," Thomas says, handing Flux a coffee cup, "look terrible, just so you know."
Flux gives a withering look. "Anyone tell you that you're a real charmer, Thomas?"
"Oh, all the time." Thomas takes a bite out of his bagel. "Glad to see you didn't trip and fall and die in the shower. Cynnika called me when they couldn't reach you last night. You good, right?"
Flux busies himself with the cash register, knowing there's no clean way to reveal anything, anxious all of a sudden. As if this is something he's meant to take responsibility for.
"Saparata showed up," Flux says simply. This is hardly the first time Saparata has gatecrashed back into his life after little to no contact. Flux knows how this goes. Flux knows that Thomas knows how this goes. This would hardly be the last, probably. They've been like this since 18 and it hasn't shown any signs of stopping at 27.
Thomas eyebrows knit, but Rotation's head snaps towards them at Mach speeds before Thomas can get any choice words out. Dimly, Flux realises the errors of bringing this up now too late. "Saparata? Like - we're not talking about the guy who Spotify has been shoving in my face for, like, three months? Or a different Saparata? How common is that name anyways?"
Thomas gives a wicked grin. "Same guy."
The confirmation makes Rotation's eyes go saucer wide. "How the fuck does Flux even know a guy like that?"
Heat rises behind the collar of Flux's shirt. He briefly debates the pros and cons of eating a battery to save himself from embarrassment riding high on his face. "He's my -" he cuts himself off. There's no succinct way to summarize them. Best friend is questionable with how sparse their text messages and calls have been for the last several months. Lover sticks to his palate, bitter and wrong. Human wrecking ball? Bane of his existence? "We've known each other for a while. Since university," is what he reluctantly settles on.
Rotation considers this before diving into a rant about Saparata's music, most of which goes in one ear and out the other, and then promptly pulling up a YouTube clip of what appears to be the Toronto show Saparata had just come back from.
In it, Saparata's platinum hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and he's declaring, "Every single song is about you!" to deafening applause before launching into a song Flux remembers was written for him as a present when they'd just hit their first year together. They'd broken up soon after, for the first of many times, and gotten back together almost as quickly. Nausea swells, his vision suddenly blurry. He assuages himself by flicking Rotation upside the forehead and threatening to cut his lunch time if he doesn't get back to work, who grumbles but goes back to stocking.
Thomas gives Flux a careful look. A wordless conversation when Flux casts a look that says We'll talk about this later. Thomas nods, gives a two finger salute before bidding them farewell and running off to work.
Flux tries to move on with his day but it's clear his heart's elsewhere.
He's spacey and irritable all day at the record store. At an open mic that night his fingers slip flat at the piano enough times that Jophiel, a regular Flux was supposed to be accompanying, gives him a comforting shoulder squeeze before telling him he should probably think about getting some sleep before sending him off, which Flux figures is Jophiel's polite way of telling him to fuck off until he's able to play right.
When he gets home that night, the birthday cake is picked clean, coffee mug washed and returned to it's spot on the drying rack. On the granite counters is an expensive red wine bottle wrapped in plastic and pink ribbons. Saparata's birthday present, a nondescript little thing with glittering wrapping paper, now sits next to it.
Not a trace of Saparata around beyond the cologne lingering in the air. He leaves the present unopened and drinks the red wine straight from the bottle. Flux doesn't know if he should be thankful or angry.
Another cold, indigo evening. Thomas and Flux huddled on a Central Park bench, slurping noodles so spicy they both feel their mouths numbing. New York slips into Friday night, as easy as Thomas loosens the tie around his neck, exhaling shaky and bright as the first evening stars spinning into the twilight. Flux wishes he could feel half of the relief this would've probably given him now - a tension coiled tight in his gut, at the base of his skull showing no signs of loosening. They're silent in each other's company for several minutes, waiting for the other to say something.
"You're playing at that bar near Bowery soon, no? Schpood's bar?" Thomas breaks the silence. "I don't know - maybe you could invite Saps over to watch."
"Let me see if I can get a hold of him first," Flux mumbles, scarf suddenly tight like a noose around his neck.
Thomas gives him a quizzical look. "I thought Saps promised he'd keep in touch more?"
Flux gnaws at the dry skin around his thumb, spicy sauce amplifying the sting. The truth is, Flux had tried to put his foot down about this a while ago, and they'd had a genuine conversation about Saparata's Houdini-esque disappearing routines. Sort of. Sincerity wasn't a strong suit for either of them, and Saparata much preferred spilling his feelings out in song lyrics and on his bass guitar, and Flux not at all. But an attempt was made.
To his credit, Saparata was genuinely apologetic, and keeping the grudge was all the more difficult knowing there wasn't anything malicious in him. Selfishness and one-track ambition, yes, but never malice.
He'd started to send Flux voice notes previewing songs he wanted Flux's opinion of, a slew of messages and pictures from afterparties and fancy dinners captioned wish u were here flux. And Flux knew he meant it; hell, sometimes Saparata loved him more than he had the patience to reciprocate. Flux knew Saps always missed him. The thoughts never translated into action nor presence. But therein lied the issue - the distance, the way Saparata would always choose a career bursting beyond what he could probably handle over the burden of a relationship with Flux. Soon enough, even that dwindled into radio silence.
"He'd have to stick around for more than a week to make good on that."
Just then, a shrill voice cuts through the dark: "Flux! Thomas! Hey!" Flux tilts his head to the source, a figure in dark clothes and a black face mask waving under a streetlight, rapidly approaching.
Thomas and Flux exchange glances. "Speak of the devil and he shall appear, I guess," Thomas shrugs.
Saparata bounds over, claps a hand on Thomas' back, and they exchange perfunctory pleasantries. It's jarring seeing them besides each other, Saparata in ripped jeans and a faded sweater, Thomas in pressed slacks and dark curls. The three of them in some fucked up syzygy united by Saparata's disappearing habit. The entire time, Flux tries to decipher any malice, any irritation simmering beneath Thomas' placid expression, some evidence that the constant altruism wears him down as much as Flux suspects it may. Nothing betrays itself.
Saparata scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. His hair glows platinum under the streetlights. "Must be my lucky day - I've been looking for Flux."
Flux wrinkles his nose at that. "You could've called me."
"Left my phone at your apartment." Saparata laughs sheepishly. "Honestly, we should all do something right now. It's fate running into you guys around New York. Thomas, you in?'
"No, no, I should be heading out," Thomas slurps the last of his noodles, juts his chin towards his briefcase. "I'm on call tonight. Work stuff."
"On a Friday?" Saparata looks disappointed. "Just me and Flux then."
Flux narrows his eyes. "When did I agree?"
"I would've asked nicely, and you would've agreed. I'm skipping to the good part."
Flux rolls his eyes, picking at the lint in his pockets, hates how effortlessly Saparata knows him.
Thomas clears his throat. "Well, I'm heading off. Make good decisions or whatever. Keep in touch, Saps, yeah?" Thomas gives Saparata a lingering, pointed look before waving them off.
Saparata whisks them both out of Central Park before Flux has even finished his noodles. Here they are, whistling through Manhattan, crash course imminent.
"So, what's the best in New York this time of year?"
Saparata's voice sounds odd in its crispness, Flux has grown to used to hearing through tinny payphones and in shaky fan-recorded concert clips over his trebly phone speakers, so much so that the real deal is painfully foreign. Here he is, all face-to-the-wind optimism and nasally laughter, just a bit too warm for the winter on their heels.
Flux walks ahead. "It's New York, there's always something going on. You have to be more specific." His breath comes out it glittering, cloud-like puffs.
"Aw, you didn't plan anything?"
"It's not like you ever give me much of a heads-up for much of anything." Flux adjusts his scarf. "You never really even told me why you're here again."
"Like I said - I missed you."
"You should miss Ish and your band more, Saps."
Saparata makes several long strides until he's bumping shoulders with Flux, shoving his hands further into his coat pockets. Right now, with his bleached hair tucked into a beanie and a face mask pulled over his nose, he's virtually unrecognizable from whatever punk-rock posturing he'll front to the rest of the world. It makes some possessive streak in Flux turn on like a pilot light, much to his chagrin. Maybe he's allowed this petty possessiveness now when it seldom comes, when Saparata will eventually run away without so much as a farewell for another sold out show. This is just Saps now, all his own, even if that relegation is carving a new hollowness out of him. Nothing but flickering street lights and late autumn to witness them try to figure each other out again.
"I mean it's not like - whoa, hey!" Saparata cuts himself off, harshly smacking Flux across the shoulder in excitement several times.
"Fucking ow - what? What?" Flex bats his hand away.
He follows Saparata's gaze across the street to a seedy dive bar pouring honeyed light onto snowy sidewalks. Outside, a neon sign featuring a man with a saxophone advertises a nightly schedule of open mic nights and live jazz performances.
"Our bar! It's our bar!" Flux can see Saparata's eyes crinkle into little crescents and fondness blooms in his chest.
"Huh. So it is," Flux says, folding his arms in a bid to feign resignation. Flux hadn't even realised he'd been subconsciously walking them both past their old stomping grounds, routines and habits Flux would much prefer to leave in the past guiding him like a recovering addict everytime he's around Saparata.
Saparata has always been his favourite compulsion after all.
"We should go in. Get drunk, just like university." Saparata turns to him, pulling down his face mask and giving the best approximation of puppy dog eyes he's capable of.
Flux averts his eyes, inhales sharply. "Smells like bad decisions."
"A strategic bad decision for a fun time. Which makes it a good decision."
"You're going to regret it." Flux pinches the bridge of his nose. "We're going to regret it. I have work tomorrow."
"Please? Flux, please?"
Really, Flux wants to say no. Flux wants to roll his eyes, say that they're half a decade out of university, and that there's no point in playing a caricature of young love when the both of them are too incapable of it. There's nothing Flux owes him when all he does is volunteer his time. Instead, what comes out his mouth is, "Ok, fine, let's do it. Just one drink."
While Saparata and Flux continue to evolve beyond recognition, this bar has not. It's a dizzying perfect preservation of every night out and every hangover they've experienced together in university. Same dim lighting, same dark booths clustered around a small, semi-circular stage at the centre. They'd carved their names underneath one of the tables during senior year. Flux wonders if it's still there, if they'll pass younger, bright eyed apparitions of themselves folded away in that same booth who'd deluded themselves into thinking distance and fame were weaker than whatever they thought they had.
They'd met at this bar for the first time during frosh week. It was the first time Flux had been to a bar, or club, or anywhere that served alcohol for that matter. Saturday was open mic nights, and between tongue-numbing shots of Patron and shitty beer, Flux and Snowbird found their fun in ribbing at various musically-mediocre boys with floppy brown hair and menthols singing what they clearly believed would be the next era-defining love song, but ended up along the lines of a subpar Morrissey imitation. It was priceless entertainment.
And then, there he was panicking within an earshot of where Flux and his friend Snowbird were huddled around a table. Pale hair, pale eyes, flushed pink with agitation - a recognizable face. He'd seen Saparata a few times around campus, the name carried a weight as heavy as the varsity volleyball medals strung around his neck, and Flux felt an immediate spark of irritation that, inexplicably, music was probably yet another attention-seeking venture he excelled at. Of course. Of fucking course.
"How the fuck - how the fuck do we play when we don't have anyone on keys? Should we drop out? I think we should drop out -" Saparata's voice came in a tumbling panic to one of his bandmates, an equally pale guy with a dozen facial piercings. They must churn these guys out in factories. Flux rolled his eyes, took another sip of his Coors. Schadenfreude felt even better when tipsy, Flux learned.
And then came Snowbird, drunk and loudly proclaiming, "My friend over here plays keys!" Pointing right at Flux's horrified face.
Saparata begged for Flux to substitute so hard it would've been excruciatingly embarrassing for both of them if he'd rejected. And he wanted to shove him off so bad - Flux was a jazz-trained pianist, god damn it - playing keys for a freshman's approximation of a rock band was not on his Saturday night wish list. But there it was, those stupid puppy dog eyes ("Please? Pretty please? I'll owe you one forever,") and suddenly Flux was learning several new songs thirty minutes before they were meant to perform.
And when Saparata went up on that stage and sang, Flux along with every other person in that bar realised oh, he was not a run-of-the-mill aspirational musicians who'd fall of the face of the earth once reality chewed and spat them out. He was the real deal. A dazzling, star quality that made everyone move to the wave of his hands, one that Flux had no litmus for identifying until he'd seen it himself that very day. The supernova called Saparata was imminent, and Flux didn't even bother bracing himself against the explosion.
At the end of that show, Saparata had thrown his arms around Flux, who immediately resisted, and declared, "Genuinely, I could kiss you right now."
Even then, the joke fell flat.
But that was before. Now, they're 27, balancing on sticky bar stools and listening to a woman with red ringlets serenade them with a rendition of a French song Flux can't name. Saparata whistles along. The air is stale with memories and endorphins.
Flux orders a cocktail, this bitter fruity thing with appleton rum and demerara smeared around the rim. He takes a sip - it's stronger than expected, but goes down honey smooth. Saparata orders something that smells sharply of mezcal.
"Rum? Seriously?" Saparata laughs. "Weren't you super into, like, espresso martinis and shitty Coors?"
"Shut up Saps," Flux says sardonically. "Taste is meant to evolve when you get older. We can't all be into the same mezcal we drank in university."
"It's tried and true!" Saparata looks affronted.
"I think you're delusional, rockstar."
"Ouch. It sounds so bad when you say it like that."
"Someone's got to be the one to take you down a peg."
"Even when all I do is write songs about you?"
Flux hides the heady flush of his face behind another sip. Next to him, Saparata has a pitifully lovestruck look, chin balanced on a propped elbow, face dusting pink. Tender, adoring, making Flux's stomach roil. There's a drunken glossiness over his dark eyes, something between game and hunger filming over them. The dim lights reflect off a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, on the stray platinum strands slipping from his beanie, the new piercings in his ears. He's surprised no one has recognized Saparata yet; Flux is grateful, because he isn't willing to share the view right now.
"You know, sometimes I can't remember how old we are."
"That's terrible. It was my birthday a few days ago, asshole."
"Fuck, we never really celebrated, did we?"
"I mean, I did just fine. You showed up late and uninvited." Like always, he wants to tack on. Only, with the alcohol loosening his usual reservation, Flux realises he'd said it out loud by how Saparata's face crumples. Immediately, Flux tries to flush away the regret by downing the rest of his drink in a single chug. He shouldn't feel guilty. It was irrefutable truth. He still does.
Saparata suddenly grabs his wrist, a newfound determination pinching his eyebrows. "Let me make it up to you. Right now."
Flux's vision swims, looking down at the Saparata's index and thumb curled around his wrist, then back up at glazed dark eyes. His lips form around words of indignation that don't make it out before Saparata throws several crumpled bills onto the bar counter and drags them both out into the blistering cold.
Manhattan extends miles and miles under their feet, metal skyscrapers and flickering streetlights against blindingly white snow. Saparata holds onto Flux's wrist, his pulse fluttering wildly in his throat - young and new and giddy. Does Saparata even have a plan? Does he even know where they're going? Flux calls his name several times, slurring and stumbling all the while, to no avail.
When Saparata doesn't respond for the third time, Flux yanks his wrist back, before diving for a snow pile and chucking a handful of it against the back of Saparata's head.
Flux feels the rum coil in his stomach, and with it, an irateness. He's drunk enough that he almost thinks he's genuinely pissed Saparata off by the gawking O his mouth falls open into as he turns around, before he grabs a handful of snow and shoves it down the front of Flux's sweater.
Twenty minutes later, they're both damp and shivering in a mid-November pile of snow, clinging onto each other in a bid for warmth. They lie there, for god knows how long, half-drunk and half-in love all over again under the full moon, laughing with their bodies folded onto each other like this is all they know to do.
Snowflakes trip down in heavy, cottony fluff.
Pink and warm, Flux reaches for Saparata's head, ruffles away the snow sitting in his hair. His hands slide down to rest against Saparata's cheek. Flux feels his restraint unspooling into the night, suddenly hoping Saparata forgets to leave in the morning, hoping the moon forgets to fall down. Saparata's lips on his palm is all it takes for the cistern to collapse.
It doesn't take long for Saparata to have Flux pinned against the wooden door of his apartment, hands reverently cupping the sides of his face and kissing Flux like he's bent on crawling right past his gasping, swollen lips. It's desperate and uncoordinated, the heat and alcohol sharpening the want until it's all Flux can think about, all he can feel skating down his spine as it arches into Saparata. Flux feels himself gasp, tasting shitty mezcal and corny love songs and November snow. Flux bunches fists into Saparata shirt pulling him impossibly closer like he'd disperse into the wind otherwise.
"God, I've missed you," Saparata slurs, smiling against Flux's mouth. "I've missed you so much."
And through the haze, Flux opens his eyes and chances a look at Saparata, stunningly beautiful even with grimy apartment lightning jaundicing his complexion, and he realises, this can't be happening, because now he's fucked all over again.